You are now Dualscar.
You are staring at yourself in the mirror and you cannot POSSIBLY fathom why this green-blood troll Mindfang is having her fun with would hurt you this much. You examine the cruel violet scars slashing across your face. Have they lessened any? They say with age, scars get smaller. Maybe they've gotten smaller?
You decide to look at some other, older scars for comparison. Divested of your fancy trappings and underclothes, you could be mistaken for a low-blood. Except, of course, for the faint lilac flush to your thick, grey skin. And the thick cords of amethyst scars marking on your body a timeline of battles; battles in which you conquered, battles in which you failed, battles in which the nights ended in a color darker than black, the color of hateful lust. Lust for the kill. Bloodlust.
No, none of these scars have shrunken. Not even that one that you got from falling on your knee in a pile of driftwood when you were fresh out of the cocoon that resulted in a hole cutting through your flesh and sinew. The next in line for the Empress' throne at the time helped fix it. You can't remember her name. They all look the same. You only remember that deep infatuation you had for her before she was culled by the Condesce. You remember that it was the hardest you ever cried. It was the time when you closed off your heart to flushed feelings.
Your mind wanders to Spinneret and the noble color of her dusky blue scars as they sketch a picture of war over her body as her skin slides under your touch. She is the only one you can think to compare your scars to. She is the only one worthy of being your ultimate rival. She is the only one who understands.
Which is why it is time for the ultimate move to be played against your ultimate rival.
Time to kill the lowblood slave.